ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE.
Know ye a prince hath fallen? They who sit
On gilded throne, with rubied diadem,
Caparisoned and guarded round, till death
Doth stretch them 'neath some gorgeous canopy,
Yet leave no foot-prints in the realm of mind—
Call them not kings—they are but crowned men.
Know ye a prince hath fallen?
Nature gave
The signet of her royalty, and years
Of mighty labour won that sceptred power
Of knowledge, which from unborn ages claims
Homage and empire, such as time's keen tooth
May never waste. Yea,—and the grace of God
So witnessed with his spirit, so impelled
To deeds of christian love, that there is reared
A monument for him, which hath no dread
Of that fierce flame which wrecks the solid earth.
I see him 'mid the Shetlands, spreading forth
The riches of the Gospel—kneeling down
To light its lamp in every darkened hut:—
Not in the armour of proud learning braced,
But with a towel girded—as to wash
The feet of those whom earthly princes scorn,
I see him lead the rugged islander,
Even as a brother, to the Lamb of God,
Counting his untaught soul more precious far
Than all the lore of all the lettered world.
I hear his eloquence—but deeper still,
And far more eloquent, there comes a dirge
O'er the hoarse wave. "All that we boast of man,
Is as the flower of grass."
Farewell—Farewell!
Pass on with Wesley, and with all the great
And good of every nation. Yea!—pass on
Where the cold name of sect, which sometimes throws
Unholy shadow o'er the heaven-warmed breast,
Doth melt to nothingness—and every surge
Of warring doctrine, in whose eddying depths,
Earth's charity was drowned, is sweetly lost
In the broad ocean of eternal love.